Milk
by wingedraksha
Summary: Ivy and Rachel have a late-night connection. Ravy one-shot.


Nighttime is harder for me than it should be. My arm against Skimmer's back, I can feel the way she tenses when I tell her. She wants me to say I can't sleep because of hunger, because of that subtle humming _need_ that I fight and she embraces. She wants me to say anything, really. Anything but this.

I roll back, away, a good few inches between us now, and pretend that the air I'm breathing doesn't smell like Rachel. I can pretend that, after all this time. I can pretend almost anything.

It does, though. It smells like heavy darkling dew, like salt and sweat and witchy musk. I can taste fear on the back of my tongue, sour and sweet and sticking to the roof of my mouth, and I wonder if it's mine or Rachel's. It's hard, sometimes, to tell the difference.

Skimmer sighs beside me, and from the corner of my eye I see her arm rise up in the darkness, her elbow jutting into the slant of moonlight that falls from the window across our bed, and I know that she's got her long thin fingers pressed across her eyes.

"You have to stop that," she says, and there's an instant when I want to reel over and strangle her. I know. I know it all. She sounds tired, and it occurs to me that while I haven't been sleeping, neither has she.

"Yes," I say, agreeably. It's only because I'm tired too, and I can't bring myself to apologize for this. It's not good enough for her.

"Damn it, Ivy, she's never going to come to you." She sucks in a breath as soon as the last word is out, and I know she knows she's made a mistake. Skimmer's proud, though, like I am proud, and she won't take it back. We're cut from the same cloth, she and I, which is why, when I slide smoothly from the bed and walk out of the room, she knows not to follow.

I go to the kitchen. A glass of water, some juice, tea, anything. I want something tangible to occupy my mind, to take away the thoughts that I can't make myself abandon. Normally I'd turn to Skimmer herself for this, but right now her voice is nothing but a reminder of what it's not. Of what she's not.

"God help me," I say, whispering, almost laughing at the irony of the words. It's an outdated phrase, and an incongruous one, but it feels good to slip the lids down across my eyes and pretend for just a moment that praying will work.

"Ivy?" If I were like her, I'd jump and snap and make some snidely affectionate quip about collars with bells on them. But I'm not her, and I know the only sign I give of my surprise is the barest tightening of my shoulders. I turn, one hand on the refrigerator door. Rachel stands in the doorway, her overlarge nightshirt brushing the middle of her thighs, her long legs crossed at the shin as she leans hesitantly against the frame. Her hair is mussed from sleep, the wild curls dizzy-dancing across her pale, shadowed cheeks. She is exhausted. She is bruised. She is beautiful.

"What are you doing up?" I ask, hating the even, placid sound of my own voice. I'm too damn contained, but there's no way to change that. No way to let that go.

"I could ask you the same thing," she says, straightening away from the doorframe. She smiles at me, and I want to die. Then I reconsider. "My head hurt. I was going to get some…" She trails off into a mumble, and blushes. Intrigued, I raise a brow as I pull open the refrigerator door and retrieve my orange juice. Rachel shakes her head and answers the silent question. "I was going to get some warm milk, okay?" The corners of my mouth want to quirk up. It's the wanting that's dangerous, and I don't quite let myself smile.

"I could have sworn you just turned twenty-five," I say instead, pouring my glass of juice without letting her out of my sight. "Looks like I'm off by a decade or two."

"Shut up," Rachel says amicably, and shuffles over to the mug shelf. "My mom used to make it for me when I was a kid, and it works."

"If you say so, Girl Wonder." She shoots me an adorable little sneer, and this time I do smile. When she sees it, Rachel grins tiredly and I feel a pang. She loves it when I'm happy. It's not her fault that I just love _her_.

"Do you want some?" she asks, eying me. "It helps you go back to sleep." I open my mouth to decline, and then glance down at my cup. It's empty. I've drained the orange juice without even realizing it. Sighing, I nod.

"Why not?" Rachel raises her hands, a mug hooked off the index finger of each, and frowns.

"Hey, don't get too enthusiastic. It might regress you back to your five-year-old self."

"I never had a five-year-old self," I tell her lazily, trying to relax. It's not easy. Skimmer's in the back, waiting for me, and I shouldn't be doing this. Having fun with Rachel is one thing. Having fun with Rachel in the middle of the night while she's dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt is another thing entirely.

"Yeah, right," Rachel mocks, and pours milk into both mugs. She pads to the microwave. "I can see it now: tiny little Ivy pouting on the swing set because some nasty ten-year-old wouldn't let her play the pirate instead of the princess." I shake my head, snorting. I never played pirates and princesses when I was young, but she doesn't need to know that.

There is a ding, and Rachel comes around the table to hand me my mug. When she does, our fingers touch. She looks at me, and for the quickest piece of an instant, there's something breathless about her eyes, something wide and inviting that flits around the edges of her lips. Then it's gone, and I sip my warm milk while she gulps hers, and I command my pulse to stop racing and my instincts to stop clamoring.

"Well," Rachel says, suddenly awkward. The silence between us isn't quite uncomfortable, but I want to hold her gaze and she wants me to let her not want to hold mine, and after a moment I blink and it's over. "Goodnight," she murmurs, turning all at once to go back to her room. Everything in me wants to drop the mug, reach out and grab her, to pull her into me and demand that she meet my eyes and _hold_ the stare, demand that she let that hot, vulnerable wondering look fall across her face for longer than a moment. I want to make it Rachel and Ivy and no one else, but more than that, I want to make _her_ accept that it _already is_.

"Goodnight," I say instead of any of that, but it's too late. She's gone.

I drink the rest of my milk.

Skimmer's waiting.


End file.
